that which cannot be fixed
by urfriendlyneighborhoodpan
Summary: Sometimes you need to be reminded of your worth, and you are learning that this is okay. (bokuroo)
**A.N. : From Bokuto's perspective. There are themes of depression in this.**

 **I do not own _Haikyuu!_**

The sun is on the precipice of setting for a final time, and there is this old, familiar weight dropping right over your shoulders and at the nape of your neck. You have no trouble breathing but your lungs feel as if they are filling with _something_ , water or tar or grit, and you do not feel as if you are drowning at all. Ice prickles over your skin but you feel no cold; down your spine there is a chill but you do not try to strain it out of you. By all means, you should be feeling some sort of panic and yet there is a calm settling at the core of you, the pit of your chest and the base of your throat, it comes in intervals, these full waves that hiss on their way back out. You suck them in greedily and do not flinch at the ache at the backs of your teeth.

You are sitting in your bed, alone, and you cannot find the motivation to drag yourself out of it. Somewhere in your home there is a mouth waiting to snap at your hackles and you cannot bring yourself to face it again, there is a new tightness somewhere within you that twists hard at the thought of leaving this faux sanctuary.

The cell phone on the desk has been vibrating for the past hour but whenever you cast your eyes toward it, everything falls out of focus and you want nothing more than to drift back into the inviting warmth of your pillows, to burrow underneath your sheets, to let all else fade away to backdrop and insignificant. You breathe deeply, profoundly, and will yourself to reach for the bottle of water at the side of the bed.

It does nothing to clear your mind of fog, but you drink and drink until your lungs burn and your fingers thread hard into the covers. You gasp for air and you are not revitalized.

You are alive, and this is enough for now.

.x.

There are five missed calls and ten different texts from four different people. You do not read them until after you have showered, and it is nine in the evening. There is an apple in the kitchen and when you are finished it is a skeletal shadow of what it once was, and after chugging half the contents of the milk carton in the fridge you open the messages to read under the harsh fluorescents. Half of them are from your friends; there was no practice today, but when you had not answered their invitations for lunch they had all jumped to the worst conclusions.

Broken leg, lost dog, house fire, and— _is it bad again_?

One of them comes from the little shrimp, a single photo of a doodle he had made during a mandatory study session that looks suspiciously a lot like you. It brings a brief pull of warmth at your middle and so you smile, sigh softly into the air and tell him the truth—it's the most beautiful thing you've seen all day.

Before you can move to the last message, his response pops up like a beacon, a rushing relief, a, " _Thank you, thank you, Bokuto-san, I'm not that great at drawing so I thought you'd get mad!_ "

There's a little back and forth before he sheepishly explains he's been scolded for not paying attention, and this soothes a chuckle from between your lips.

The last message—

 _Can I come over?_

.x.

The house is silent again and you don't know where everyone is, again, and so you clean your room to get things moving. It takes far too much energy and far too much time and as you replace the sheets of your bed it takes every bone in your body not to fall forward into it. You yawn and then stretch and then yawn again and you are so tired, you are so numb, you are so done with the day and everything in it you just want to sink far away from it. Another yawn, your phone is vibrating, you want to splash cold water on your face.

"Just come inside," you snap, and then try to soften your voice when you add, "I'm up in my room, bring snacks."

He has been here before, and always at the worst times. You rub the ache from your eyes and contemplate doing a few sets of pushups just to get your blood going, but he is opening the door, stacks of bowls in his arms and bottles of cold water tucked up under his armpit. Fruit, freshly washed, and a bag of saltines. He lays them out on your bed and he knows, he knows, he knows you're not okay and he's just here to help you—you need to remind yourself of this.

Everything inside of you is clambering to refuse him this, some small and insecure part of you that shrinks in on itself and flinches hard when he turns his sharp eyes on you, hissing out some angry thing that does not belong here—something about dishonesty, about masks and hurt and untruth and being too worthless to _belong here_.

"You cleaned up a little," he comments, twisting open a water bottle and then holding it out to you. "That must have worn you out. Why don't you relax? I'll help you do the rest."

You can only sink onto your mattress gratefully, but guilt festers within you as you watch him circle around your room. He scoops your clothes into the basket by the closet, straightening up your desk and organizing the collection of comic books you've fiddled with at some point the other day. He disappears for a few minutes and returns with your laundry basket, empty. When he sits down beside you, you are struggling to overcome the strange rise of emotion in your chest, the pinch between your eyes.

"Let's eat," he says, picking a sliced strawberry from one bowl and popping it into his mouth. "You must be hungry."

"Yeah," you sigh, and he nudges the food toward you helpfully. There is a small sandwich waiting on a piece of napkin and he doesn't say a word when you reach for it. There is a kind and comforting smile that tugs at the end of his lips and when he reaches out to wipe the crumbs from your cheek it stretches out into a little grin you can't help returning.

"I'm so proud of you," he tells you, and leans forward to kiss your eyebrow. "You did good today, don't worry."

Something rises up in your throat, tight and bubbling, and you squeeze your eyes shut. "It's bad again. It's bad again, it's so bad—"

"It's okay," he soothes, and guides you into him, lets you seek refuge in the crook of his neck. "It's okay, it's okay, it'll happen and it sucks but you pull through and that's enough, that's enough. You're enough."

He encourages you to eat from each bowl, and when you take to finishing them whole, he complains very lightly, draws from you the sort of laugh you only give when you forget yourself—and you forget yourself, in this moment there is nothing more than the pressure of his hand on your knee and the sound of your name, the rumble of his laughter and the gleam in his eyes, sharp and pretty. When his lips find yours, it is with teeth and tongue and senseless jokes, and it goes like this.

It goes like this, like natural, like breath and heartbeat and sinking revelations. You steal the air from his lungs and he lets you; you bite too hard on his lip and he lets you; you pull on his hair and soak his shirt with all that you cannot suppress any longer and he lets you—he lets you, he lets you, he does not flinch from the onslaught of your emotions and anxieties and does not pretend he understands them. He has tried to fix what cannot be fixed before, he has tried to piece you back together and has scraped and cut and bruised himself in the process; there is no room for you inside of you any longer and so he takes what you cannot take anymore.

When you resurface, you are both sprawled across your bed in a heap of tangled limbs. His fingers are dragging through your hair and you attempt to even out your breaths, to stem this throbbing numb. He kisses your temple and you are here, you are here, you are here and nothing hurts as much as you think it does.

"Everything's okay," he tells you, and you believe him.

.x.

The sun is lighting up the sky for a final time, and there is this old, familiar weight falling off your shoulders. You have no trouble breathing, and this is okay.

You are sitting on your bed, alone, and this is okay.

Everything is okay.

.x.

* * *

 **A.N.** **: I feel like Bokuto would have depression, too.**

 **Thanks for reading.**


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